


In Fields of Gold

by notoriousbeb



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confession, M/M, Pining, Post 613, Post-Season/Series 06, Radio calls—kinda, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Speculation, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-23 19:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousbeb/pseuds/notoriousbeb
Summary: What happened between Bellamy and Clarke’s sunrise reunion and the anomaly stone revelation?





	1. Fields of Gold

It’s dawn when he finds her face in the crowd. Before she launches herself into his arms, he has just a second to marvel at how the still-watery morning rays turn her hair into a halo. 

Bellamy tries—and fails, he thinks—to reassure her. But he does try, echoing their promise to each other, to their old friend. And when that isn’t enough, when her chin quivers, his own eyes sting with tears. He forgoes words, pulling her back to him. 

While in front of crowds, eloquent speech always seems to find him. Yet, with her, words fail him more often than not. 

But holding her? This fits. It always has. 

Clarke cries into his shoulder for a few moments. Or maybe it’s minutes. Bellamy isn’t sure. He’s lost track of time, murmuring in her ear that it will be okay, that she will be okay. He will make sure of it.

His face buried where her neck meets her shoulder, he feels her heartbeat against his lips, through the thin fabric of her shirt. And for a while he counts off each precious pulse. He only looks up when her sniffles pause suddenly. 

Madi is beside them. 

Wary for an instant, Bellamy searches the girl’s face for any of the malice that had overtaken it this past week. 

But now, though her big brown eyes are free of rage, they’re no longer the precocious eyes of a child. Rather, their shadows remind Bellamy of his sister, his mother. They’re liquid with loss and regret and an exhaustion that kindles a blaze of fury in the center of his chest. She’s too young for those eyes. 

But when Clarke wraps an arm around Madi and the girl’s face crumples, his flames of anger die, snuffed out by a wave of helplessness. 

Wordlessly, Clarke folds her daughter into their embrace. Madi’s small arm snakes around his waist and he swallows thickly, remembering how she clung to him—and why—just a few nights ago. 

Not knowing what else to do, he holds them both tight, rocking slightly, side to side. Not knowing what else to say, he says nothing. 

He’s devastated for them,  _ with  _ them—not just for the loss of Abby, and the loss of Kane, but also the unimaginable trauma they’ve both, somehow, endured. He thinks of the alien forces that had wrested control of their bodies, their minds. He shudders, holds them tighter. 

The sunlight strengthens and filters through the acrid smoke of smoldering buildings and bodies, as shouts of recognition and relief, weeping and laughter, fill the air. But all Bellamy hears are the soft sobs of the small family gripping onto him and each other.

He feels leaden with the weight of it—their combined, engulfing hurt. But it’s a millstone he’ll gladly bear, for eternity, like Atlas. He’ll carry all this and more, he thinks, if it will bring them any measure of comfort. 

Yet, despite the weight, as they stand there, swaying and sniffling in the cool morning air, a lightness—something like peace—settles on his chest. It’s not  _ just _ relief, he realizes, pressing an impulsive kiss to Clarke’s temple, a tear dripping off his cheek onto her collar. It’s joy, too, that he feels. An almost delirious joy, causing his fingers to shake in her hair, at her back. Because she is alive. She is here. Alive. Alive. 

After Josephine, he hadn’t wanted to let Clarke out of his sight—was willing to damn the rest of the people on this cursed planet if it meant keeping her safe. But Clarke was going to be Clarke. Pragmatic. Brave. Kind. He loved her for wanting to do better, _ be  _ better, even though she’d always been the best part of them, of him.

So he’d nodded and watched her disappear into the night, playing the part of the enemy. And then he fought down the panic again when she followed Madi and the Primes up to Eligius last night. 

In the mayhem that had erupted on the ground in Sanctum, and its wake, he hadn’t let himself wonder if her ruse had held, if she was safe or hurt or scared. For hours, he’d leashed his thoughts if they came too near her. It was a familiar practice. 

That dam now broken, he silently, but fervently, thanks whatever gods might actually exist for bringing her back, and tightens his hold on her.

When a foreign hand comes to rest on his shoulder, Bellamy stiffens. Echo flashes into his mind's eye. But when he withdraws his face from the crook of Clarke’s neck, it’s Jackson’s eyes, dark with concern, that meet his own.

***

“It’s gentle, Bellamy. And a safe dosage,” the young doctor murmurs hours later, raising a palm in assurance. “Just enough so they can sleep for a while.”

Bellamy doesn’t respond, but instead looks back at the bed that takes up most of the small room above the tavern. There, tucked beneath a thick quilt, and a blanket of sedative, rests the last of the Griffin family. 

Even with the now-golden light of afternoon on her sleeping face, Madi looks sallow. Bellamy worries that she needs more than just bed rest, but he trusts Jackson's expertise. His eyes sweep to Clarke, who is still clutching the younger girl in her sleep, and he grimaces. 

Despite her unconscious state, Clarke’s face is puckered, either from stress or grief or both. Bellamy’s chest tightens. His fingers twitch, itching to reach out and smooth the line from between her eyebrows. But they find another purpose as he draws the heavy curtain over the window.

“They’ve been through...a lot.” Jackson keeps his voice low and moves toward the hall. 

“The best we can do for them right now is make sure they rest,” he finishes, opening the door and gesturing for Bellamy to follow.

Bellamy opens his mouth to agree, say thank you, but finds his throat is too thick with emotion for the words to pass. He coughs and nods, instead, clasping Jackson on the shoulder. From the man’s answering smile, small and sad though it is, Bellamy knows he’s understood. 

Jackson leaves him then. Whether to attend to more patients in need after last night’s chaos, to find the rest of their friends or to steal a quiet moment with Miller, Bellamy doesn’t know. 

He also doesn’t know what to do next. So he stands in the hall, unsure and suspended between the door to the bedroom and the crowd he can hear milling about downstairs. He is considering hauling a chair up from the tavern to keep watch over the sleeping pair when Octavia’s voice startles him from his reverie. 

“Hey,” she says, her eyes flicking between the door and his face. “We, uh, we’ve been waiting for you by the bench.”

The bench? Bellamy knows he  _ should _ know what she’s talking about. But when he casts a net into his mind all he pulls out are messes of tear-tracked cheeks and golden hair and soporific syringes. Octavia narrows her eyes slightly, but continues.

“We were going to head back to Gabriel’s camp; see what we might be able to piece together about the anomaly.” Octavia pitches the statements up at the end, like questions. 

Bellamy takes a deep breath through his nose and tilts his head back. Right, he remembers now.  _ The anomaly awaits. _ But his own eyes stray to the door beside him. 

“Bell.” Octavia steps closers, her voice low, soft. “I talked to Jackson.”

She’d talked to Jackson already? A distant voice in his head wonders. How long had he been standing up here? 

“You’ve done what you can for them for today. I get it. Believe me.” The knowing look in her eye and tilt of her head tells him she understands more than he’d like her to, actually.

“But pacing here for the next 12 hours isn’t going to do her— _ them _ —any good, or you either for—”

“I’m not pacing.” He interrupts, trying and failing to keep the indignation from his whispered denial. Gently grasping one of her forearms, he moves them further into the hall, away from the door. It’s thick, but not likely soundproof. 

Octavia makes a face like she wants to roll her eyes, but reigns it in, empathy softening his sister’s gaze once more. “Look, we’ll go, poke around a little, and then we’ll come right back, okay? I just want to see it again.”

He’s silent for a beat. But when he opens his mouth to protest, as years of experience tells her he is about to, she presses on. 

“I have to know, Bell.” Her hands form a steeple in front of her, reminding him of when she’d beg for just one more bedtime story. 

But, in the end, it’s not his sister’s pleading that convinces him. It’s the woman who appears at the top of the stairs. Her eyes meet his—questioning, waiting. Loyal and trusting. He owes her a conversation. 

He’ll go, he decides. And when they’re back, or on their way back, he’ll pull her aside. Casting one last lingering glance at the door, he heads to the stairs. 

***

Much to Gabriel’s good-natured-but-genuine impatience, Bellamy won’t leave the limits of Sanctum without ensuring the Griffins are under watch. 

However, it takes knocking on just a few doors before he finds Jackson, indeed busy stitching up the arm of a Sanctumite, with Niylah’s assistance. 

And after the weary-yet-understanding doctor assures Bellamy that Clarke and Madi won’t go more than 30 minutes without a look-in, Niylah squeezes his upper arm in silent accord, and Bellamy finally agrees to head out.

***

Later, as he treks through the inauspicious, still-alien forest with Echo silent beside him, Bellamy tunes out Octavia and Gabriel’s fervent theorizing and begins to piece together conversations of his own. 

The one he’s been avoiding with Echo. And the one he rehearsed so many times back on Earth, back before praimfaya stole his reason away. After that, he spent six years trying to forget those words. 

_ I need you. I can’t remember what it’s like to not need you _ , he starts, hearing the words take shape in his head once more. He narrowly avoids tripping over a root and smiles, remembering another long-ago walk in a forest. 

_ You called me every day for six years and you left me to die in a fighting pit. And I missed you every single damn day of those six years, and then I broke the most important promise I’ve ever made to you, to keep Madi safe. _

_ We did those things, yes, but we’re still here. We’re still us. That has to mean something, Clarke. At least it means something to me.  _

_ You are my family, too. I should have told you that. I should have told you a lot of things. But I’m telling you now.  _

_ I love you—I am  _ in love  _ with you. I have been for a very long time, 150 or so years, I guess. And I know now that I will be for the rest of my life— _

“That’s it, just up ahead,” Gabriel’s voice slices across Bellamy’s thoughts. As the old man calls out to Echo, he points towards the peak of a tent Bellamy can just see through the copse of reddish trees about 100 yards ahead. 

_ Soon,  _ he tells himself, readjusting the pack on his back. When she wakes up, he’ll be there. And they’ll talk. 


	2. Are You with Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of losing Abby and Octavia, Bellamy and Clarke are reeling. Will they be each other’s refuge, or let doubt and circumstance stand in the way—again?

When she wakes, it’s not gentle. Her eyes pop open, and a jolt of panic stiffens her body from head to toe. But the reflex fades as fast as it comes, leaving her in the grip of another sensation. This time, the heavy chill of certain doom. _Madi. In danger. Sheidheda. Russell._ _Simone_.

Clarke twists, struggles to untangle herself from the scratchy purple quilt someone has tucked just under her chin. 

When she does escape the blanket’s hold, she sucks in a breath of relief. The child beside her is not in the clutches of peril, but sound asleep—safe. 

And then Clarke remembers what it took to get them here.

The memories push in past the barriers of her mind, like the moonlight now creeping through the gaps on either side of the window’s thick curtain: Madi fought back. Sheidheda is gone...somewhere. Russell is in captivity. Simone is…Simone is… 

Clarke’s eyes burn as her mind erupts with flashes. An endless night sky waits beyond an open air lock. Wind rushes past her, rips the oxygen from her lungs. The cruel mask of her mother’s face presses into her struggling hand—

“No.” Clarke mutters the word. Soft, but firm, to only herself. Her mind is her own now. And she doesn’t want to think about this. Not now. Not yet. 

She looses a shaky breath, drags a hand through her sleep-mussed hair, and listens. The muffled sounds of the tavern seep in through the floorboards: conversation, clinking glasses, the scrape and thud of wooden stools and chairs. 

She peeks through the curtain and thinks it must be near closing time, based on how high the moons are in the sky. 

Clarke casts another look back toward the bed, worried for a moment that the faint din might wake Madi. But the girl is out cold. Her daughter had always been a heavy sleeper—once Clarke could get her to go to bed, that is. A ghost of a smile flickers as she remembers the indignant pout on Madi’s tiny face. 

Her usual please-go-to-sleep-now method, which Clarke estimated to have about a 60 percent success rate, was a long-winded tale.

Although they’d found a few children’s books in the valley, pre-bomb relics, Madi preferred stories from Clarke’s life before praimfaya. Her favorites revolved around Bellamy or—somewhat unexpectedly—Murphy. 

But the first bedtime story she ever told the girl was much older. Handed down from Clarke’s first ancestor on the Ark, or so Abby had told her, the fairy tale revolved around a princess locked in a tower and cursed to sleep forever. Only true love’s kiss could wake her.

Madi found the entire premise “silly” and “unrealistic.” Given everything she’d endured in her young life, Clarke couldn’t begrudge the child her accurate, if overly adult, point of view. But when she had been small, unburdened and full of wonder, she’d ask her mother to tell it again and again and again.

For a moment, Clarke remembers. Leaving the warmth of the cozy inn, she feels the cool movement of recycled air. Smells her mother’s scent: strong soap and medical disinfectant and something else—something sweet Clarke can’t name. She hears the omnipresent mechanical hum of the Ark beneath the lilt of her mother’s voice. _ Once upon a time... _

All at once, hot tears obscure her vision. Swollen and sore, her heart feels like it might burst through her chest. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, blows it out through her mouth. 

She hates this feeling, hates not being in control. She needs to get out of this room, and soon, she thinks, swiping at her cheeks. Before she can’t hold back her sobs anymore and she wakes Madi. 

As she searches for her boots, Clarke’s thoughts unintentionally drift to something else she needs—wants—but can’t have. She thinks about how, even as she fell apart in Bellamy’s arms that morning, she’d still felt more at home there than anywhere else.

She writes out a note for Madi and closes the door behind her with a soft click, silently berating herself all the while for her weakness.

Back when they still had hope of surviving on Earth, despite her many wrong turns and the constant chaos they’d lived in, she’d thought maybe the two of them were on the edge of something...but then the death wave had come. And she’d stayed behind. 

And he was right, it was definitely a little pathetic that she’d waited for him all that time. 

She can at least admit it to herself now—that she had been waiting. But that’s as far as it can go, as far as she’ll let it go. 

_ I won’t be that person_, she thinks. She hadn’t with Finn and she wouldn’t now.

Batting away thoughts of knocking on Bellamy’s door in the middle of the night, she emerges instead onto the roof, into the chilled, but fresh, open air. 

It isn’t what she really wants, isn’t the healing she craves. But the quiet calm of the night sky is still something of a balm. It’s at least better than being cooped up in that room, feeling like she might burst through the walls. 

Finally alone, with only the moons and stars as witnesses, Clarke looks out over the darkness of Sanctum and lets the unrelenting anguish wash over her. 

She grips the railing until her knuckles whiten. And when the sobs tear out of her, she shakes so hard she feels like she might never catch her breath again.

***

He’d screamed his sister’s name until his voice was hoarse. Bellowed it into the silent violence of the darkening forest until his throat ached. Yelled and yelled until gentle tugs on his arm grew harsher, the voice of the woman beside him loud enough to break through the fog of shock.

“Bellamy! Can you hear me? Bellamy!”

Eventually, Echo’s face materialized into focus in front of him. Finally seeing recognition in his eyes, she placed a hand on his cheek and continued, much softer: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Had he ever heard her voice so...fragile? He’d only seen her eyes this unguarded and wet once before, when she’d shared that awful story about her mother’s death at Azgeda’s hand. His stomach turned over.

_ This must be real then_, he thought. 

“She’s gone.” Even as he muttered it, he never wanted to hear that terrible phrase again—not one more goddamn time. 

_ No_, _ she’s not! _His own voice had echoed back at him inside his head.

But this time someone he loved, someone irreplaceable, was indeed gone. He’d seen her go, gawked in disbelief as he watched her vanish from his grip into incomprehensible emerald mist.

Octavia was gone. 

The understanding was sudden and wounding, rousing him like the sting of one of this absurd moon’s abominable insects. 

No. He wouldn’t accept this. Would not accept that they’d made it through all the war, all the danger, to space and back, to an entirely new planet, for god’s sake, before finally reconciling, only to be immediately ripped apart. 

He would get her back, if he had to barge through the gates of hell and drag her back himself, he’d get his sister back.

Full of renewed purpose, Bellamy marched into the tent, violently whipping aside the canvas flap. Jaw set in barely concealed rage, he scanned the small, dusty laboratory-come-asylum, looking for the old man. 

Octavia would never even have known about this stone, would still be here, if it wasn’t for Gabriel. Now Bellamy would make him fix it.


	3. Gravity Pulls on You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Gabriel, Echo and Hope try to unravel the mystery of the anomaly, Bellamy simply unravels.

Gabriel’s hand gestures grew larger and more frenzied as the scientist fell further and further down what Bellamy considered to be a mumbo jumbo rabbit hole. 

Meanwhile, the tent seemed to grow smaller and smaller, collapsing in on Bellamy where he stood, silent, still a few feet from the door. 

It seemed like they’d been at it for hours now, the scientist trying to sketch out the basic outlines of quantum physics and space time to Echo, with Hope—a miraculously, unbelievably fully grown Hope Diyoza—occasionally throwing in commentary. 

When Bellamy tore into the tent earlier, he’d been ready to throttle a solution out of Gabriel, and snap the neck of the woman who’d left his hands coated in Octavia’s blood. But the scene before him drew him up short: the young woman, sitting on the same cot Clarke had recuperated in less than 48 hours ago, weeping onto the old man’s shoulder. 

She’d known his sister, Hope had told him. Known Octavia, loved her, considered her family for years.  _ Years _ . His brain was aching still, trying to make sense of the nonsensical revelation. 

As Gabriel went on, pausing to field more questions from Echo, Bellamy’s mind swam. He needed a plan of attack. He stepped closer to the tent flap. He needed a strategy—not theories. Not a science lesson. He needed someone to help him plot a path out of this waking nightmare, a blueprint to get his sister back. He needed a partner,  _ his  _ partner. 

***

Before he knew it, Bellamy found himself stumbling, alone and half-running through the nearly black forest. For a while, the only sounds were his boots on the underbrush and his own jagged breath. But his desperate, tangled thoughts were much louder.

If he could just get to Clarke, talk to her, he was sure they could figure something out, some way to find Octavia, to bring her back. 

He didn’t hear the whine of the engine until it was practically on top of him and joined by the sound of tires tearing through the detritus of the forest floor at his back. 

A few moments later, when the bike skidded to a stop in front of him, cutting off his path, Bellamy blinked in surprise.

And when Echo tore off what he assumed was Gabriel’s helmet, fury mingled with concern on her face, he shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge the cobwebs of a dream.

She dismounted, kicking the bike’s stand into place, before wheeling to question him. 

“Where the hell are you going? Why did you just disappear?”

Bellamy, reason returning to him in a cold rush, shook his head, addressed the ground: “To Sanctum.” 

When he lifted his remorseful gaze, he found her wide eyes full of confusion. 

“I couldn’t just…” Struggling to explain his objectively irrational behavior, he cast his arms out in frustration. “I  _ can’t _ just sit around talking about hypotheticals and theories, Echo. Not when Octavia is...who knows where.”

His hands balled into fists at his side, he struggled to keep his voice below a shout. “We’ve got to  _ do  _ something. We need a plan. We’ve got to—” 

“‘We?’” Echo’s hands found her hips as she parroted him, an eyebrow arching. 

“And who exactly is  _ ‘we _ ,’ Bellamy? You left. You’re out here by yourself.” The concern gone, her voice was sharp as an arrowhead. 

Bellamy opened his mouth to respond, to explain, but the words didn’t come. She was right. Completely right. He hadn’t talked to her, again. And he’d left her behind—again. 

But all the words, all the smart and careful words he’d rehearsed on the way out to the camp were gone now, evaporated along with the impossible green mist that took his only sister. 

The silence between them grew, expanded until he thought he could feel the pressure of it pushing against his skin. Finally, Echo popped it with a sigh. 

Bellamy thought he heard resignation in the sound. Disappointment, maybe.

“You were going to her.” It wasn’t a question. “Weren’t you?” 

All of the previous venom had drained from her tone, replaced with fatigue. 

His mouth opened. Closed again. It was answer enough. Echo shook her head, crossed her arms in front of her chest. 

He took a deep breath, steeling himself to finally say what she deserved to hear. But she went on before he could begin his mea culpa. 

“You said nothing would change on the ground.” While she talked, she looked at the helmet in her hands. “And I wanted so badly to believe that—” 

“Hey.” His interjection was soft, but ardent. “Echo, I  _ did _ mean it. When I said—”

“Please.” It was her turn to interrupt. “Just let me say this.”

He pushed his lips together, and nodded, swiping a few curls, unruly with sweat, off his brow.

“I know you meant it. But I watched you mourn her, you know. I watched all of you mourn her.” She carefully placed the helmet on the seat of the bike. “But you, especially, Bellamy. You were so...lost, for such a long time.” 

A lump appeared in Bellamy’s throat. He tried and failed to swallow it down. They’d never talked about this. Not once in six years. 

He’d stuffed down his grief, his all-consuming guilt—not just for leaving Clarke behind. But for never telling her what she meant to him when he had the chance. He hadn’t been able to face the regret, hadn’t wanted to. 

“And I know it might sound strange,” Echo went on, looking at the ground, the black trees around them, anywhere but at him. “But I think part of the reason I fell for you was witnessing that devotion—seeing how much you’d loved her.”

Bellamy was stunned. He thought he’d done a passable job of soldiering on, plastering on a brave face and doing what needed to be done to make sure Clarke hadn’t died in vain. He hadn’t realized how transparent he’d been. 

Echo’s next words were barely above a whisper. 

“So when Madi walked out of those woods and  _ knew _ you…”

He remembered the thrill that had run through his entire body that night, like an electric current.  _ Clarke knew you would come.  _ It had felt like being shocked back to life.

“I should have known, should have...but I guess I’d hoped—” 

Echo’s voice broke on the last word and she chewed her lip, clearly angry at the unintended show of weakness. When she shook her head and knuckled away a tear, Bellamy felt a twist inside his rib cage. This was his fault. All his fault. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally finding his voice. “I am.” 

Arms out, he took a step toward her, only to stop in his tracks when she held up a warning hand. 

“No. I don’t...” She backed away from him then, finally meeting his eyes, but trailing off. 

Still frozen in place, he watched her resume her focus on the ground for a beat, listened to her clear her throat before going on. “We can talk more later. I just need... I need some time.”

Then, more generous than he could ever have asked her to be, more than anyone could have expected her to be after the hands life had dealt her, Echo gave him a crooked, almost smile.

“Besides,” she said, hitching a thumb at the bike. “You have someplace to be. Come on. I’ll take you back.”


	4. You Were Never Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy returns to Sanctum, and finds himself in the middle of a surprising conversation.

Despite the protests of his injured leg, already angered by two forest hikes in one day, Bellamy takes the stairs to Clarke’s room two at a time. 

After another sincere apology, followed by a genuine—if admittedly awkward—hug, he’d left Echo at the door downstairs and raced through the tavern without so much as a glance at any of the patrons. 

But now, as his hand reaches for the doorknob, he pauses. 

_ What am I doing? _Pulled up short by his own question, Bellamy withdraws his arm to his side.

He steps away, then back again, his internal interrogation ratcheting up. _ Are you really going to wake her up in the middle of the night? Tonight of all nights? To what? Cry on her shoulder? Tell her you need her? _

He drags his hands through his hair, blows out a breath. 

Like a man possessed, he’d run out of Gabriel’s tent and into the unknown danger of the woods, all under the guise of finding his co-leader and strategist. But while he stands in the hallway, the reality of the situation catches up with him: any and all of their friends would help him find his sister. The real reason he’s at this door isn’t Octavia—or solely Octavia. 

It’s an unavoidable truth, one that’s pulled on him like gravity for years. Drawn him across battlefields; moved him to stare down bullets and blades. 

It had taken a long time before the searing void that was Clarke’s absence had faded to a dull ache. And then he hadn’t had time, just a few chaotic, confusing weeks—give or minus a century-long nap—to fully process her extraordinary resurrection. Not before the tide of mortality dragged her under again. Twice.

To look into her eyes and see a stranger staring back...to hear the terrible silence of her unmoving heart? He’d felt stripped bare, that old wound ripped wide open. And now there was only one thing—one person—who could heal it. 

But what about healing _ Clarke _? Bellamy had promised just this morning to help her make it okay. Yet here he is, falling apart at the seams and looking to her for sutures.

She’s strong. A goddamn titan, by his estimation, but doesn’t she deserve a break from cleaning up everyone else’s messes?

He’s still considering, chewing his cheek, when the door across from Clarke’s room swings open and Murphy appears.

“Bellamy,” he says, angling his head. 

Bellamy returns the small nod of acknowledgement. He doesn’t question Murphy’s appearance in the hall, but receives an explanation anyway.

“It seems that in all the excitement of becoming a god, I forgot my favorite toy.” The man smirks and holds up an antiquated music player, giving it a slight jiggle.

His well-tailored suit telegraphs almost as much about the hoarded wealth of the Primes as the precious stone cufflinks sparkling at his wrists. 

“Wouldn’t want one of the rabble to run off with it,” the young deity adds in his signature deadpan.

Bellamy doesn’t respond. Momentarily lost in the memory of the day he’d ordered Murphy not to steal that very device, he realizes it had only been about a week ago. It feels like years.

Too busy replaying how Clarke’s laughing smile lit up her face, he doesn’t see the amusement die on Murphy’s. 

But he’s brought back to the present by his friend’s low, urgent question.

“Bellamy, what happened?”

When he follows Murphy’s dark gaze to the dried blood still caking his own hands, Bellamy’s stomach sinks. Octavia. 

He doesn’t want to tell the story—not to Murphy, at least. Not now. Not tonight.

Murphy might have saved his life—helped save all of them—just yesterday. And, yes, he had his reasons—and his regrets—Bellamy knew. But this man, who he’d come to think of as a brother, had almost snuffed out the last glimmer of Clarke. He’d nearly _ killed _her. 

“I think Echo’s still downstairs.” Bellamy’s reply is gruff. He averts his eyes, scrubs his bloody palms on his pants as he turns to the door. “She can fill you in.”

When Murphy rests a hand on his shoulder, he sighs, but turns around to meet his stare. 

“What do you want from me, Murphy?” he asks with a shake of his head.

From the set of his old friend’s mouth, Bellamy knows he’s wounded. Still, when Murphy speaks again, the sincerity catches him off guard.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Murphy says. “Truly. For all of it.” 

His eyes, uncharacteristically free of mirth, shine when they flicker to Clarke’s door. “Will you...would you tell her that?”

A knot in Bellamy’s chest loosens somewhat, and he hesitates for only a beat before nodding.

He adds, not unkindly, “But I think it would mean more coming from you.”

“Yeah, maybe...” Murphy looks thoughtful for a moment, studying his shiny, leather shoes. The distant clinks and mumbles of the tavern fill the silence. “Maybe you’re right.”

Then he looks up with a grin. “But another day. Looks like she’s got you to deal with right now.”

Bellamy winces, shifting his weight. “I don’t know about that. It might not be the best time.”

“Ah,” Murphy says, bobbing his head in a deep nod. “Is that what you’ve been doing out here then? Chickening out?”

Bellamy stills, his mouth dropping open. “I— what? Were you watching me?”

“No,” Murphy draws out the word, palms out in defense. “I was not. I just happen to be very perceptive, in addition to extremely well dressed...That, and I could hear you pacing.”

Chagrined, Bellamy blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

“I’m not ‘chickening out.’ I just don’t know if now—” He shakes his head, starts again. “I don’t know.” 

He braces for a barbed retort. But the anticipated snark never comes.

“Look, whatever happened tonight, Clarke will deal,” Murphy replies. With a small smile, he adds, “Us cockroaches are tough.” 

He turns to leave, but stops short, an inscrutable look passing over his face.

“And, Bellamy…” he says, lowering his voice and leaning in. “We all just barely made it past what I _ believe _ is our thousandth-and-one brush with death. So, maybe waiting for the right time is the conscientious move...but what happens when there’s no time left?” 

Murphy pauses, tilts his head to the side, then finishes his thought. “Seems like you and Clarke might already know something about that, though.”

Bellamy blinks, too stunned to conjure a rebuttal.

“That being said, I’m no expert.” Murphy steps back, smirk in place once again, and straightens his sleeves. “So don’t blame me if it all goes to hell.” 

With that, he gives Bellamy a wink and a pat on the arm, and heads for the stairs, cape swishing around his ankles. 

***

Bellamy pushes the door open an inch at a time, not wanting to wake either Griffin if he can avoid it.

The almost stuffy warmth of the quiet room and a faint scent he associates with Clarke greet him, the latter something earthy and floral. He smiles to himself.

Despite Murphy’s advice, Bellamy’s plan for the night is to watch over the pair until he falls asleep himself. Just being near Clarke is enough for now. The rest can wait until morning, after she’s had a good, long sleep.

He’s only one step into the room when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Bellamy swivels his head around, taking in the entirety of the small space in one motion. The room is empty. No Madi. No Clarke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a bit of a shorty, but the next and final (I believe) chapter is already underway. 
> 
> Personally, I was really excited when Murphy showed up. After our dynamic duo, he’s my favorite The 100 character. His garbage-person charm is unspeakably fun to play with. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Your Mess is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone at last, with nothing standing in their way but themselves, will Clarke and Bellamy finally acknowledge the truth?

One more long step and Bellamy is standing over the Griffin’s unoccupied bed. There, relief crashes over him like a wave.

Scrawled on spare sketch paper, two notes lie side by side on the rumpled quilt. The first one, in Clarke’s neat script: “Went upstairs for some air. Be back soon.” The second, in Madi’s jumbled but legible scribble: “Went downstairs for some cookies.”

Despite the hellish events of the last few hours, last few days really, Bellamy can’t help but exhale a snort of amusement. He folds the second note over once, and stuffs it in his pocket, before heading to the roof. 

***

He finds her standing at the railing, silhouetted by an enormous, ringed planet. Lilac and radiant it takes up a stunning amount of night sky. But the celestial wonder pales in comparison to Clarke. 

An unexpected light in the darkness, she illuminates her surroundings. Her hair, bleached by moonlight, stirs in the breeze. It doesn’t quite reach the thin straps of her long white nightgown, which he guesses must have belonged to Delilah. Shining silver against the night, it flows down to the toes of Clarke’s incongruous black boots. Even her skin appears lit from within.

He swallows. Taking a slow step toward her, his voice is soft. “Clarke?” 

Bellamy marks the quick swipe she takes at her cheek before tossing him a half-smile over her shoulder. He returns it. 

"Hey.” The forced levity in her tone fails to mask the roughness in her voice. "Can't sleep either?" 

He’s not sure why, but that’s all it takes for Bellamy to break. Before he even realizes he’s moving, the short distance between them closes, and he’s wrapped around her. With his face safely buried in her neck, the tears come. 

“Hey, hey.” She tightens her grip, lifts her chin to rest on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

For a moment, he can only relive the events of that afternoon, feel the solid warmth of Octavia fall into his arms only to vanish into nothing a heartbeat later. Unable to describe the impossible—the unthinkable—he shudders against Clarke. 

“What happened?” She pulls back, her hands sliding to his shoulders. Her eyes, dark with worry, search his.

When he can only open and close his mouth for a moment, her face goes slack, whitens with fear. “Did Russell—” 

“No, no. It’s not Russell.” Her fear catapults him back into speech. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The story spills out of him now. The stone. The anomaly. Hope...Octavia. While he talks, Clarke takes him by the hand and guides him to a wide, cushioned couch tucked into the corner of the roof. She sits down beside him, their still-clasped hands between them.

He thinks he must sound like a jumbled mess. But Clarke doesn’t interrupt. Silent, she rubs soothing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. Her eyes never leave his face, even when he finds it easier to look up and address the stars.

When he’s done, he exhales a long, quaking breath. Taking back the hand she’d been cradling, he runs the heels of both fists under his eyes. 

The chill night air stings Clarke’s empty palm. But she focuses on their newest reality. Where is Octavia? Has she gone to wherever Hope came from? Or someplace entirely different? How can they fight an enemy they know almost nothing about—

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy starts, interrupting her reverie. 

He leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees, knuckling a fist into his palm. 

“I didn’t want to lay all this on you tonight. I was going to give you time to—” 

“Hey.” She squeezes his shoulder, frowning at his dark profile. “No matter what, I am here for you—for both of you. We’ll get her back, Bellamy.”

He looks up at that, notices the way her eyebrows rise in unison when she’s earnest. 

“I promise.” She adds, angling her head toward him to underscore the vow.

And he believes her. 

_ Now_. He decides. Bellamy sits back, twisting his body toward Clarke. He’ll tell her now. No more waiting. 

Gentle as the breeze rustling through the treetops, he tucks her hair behind her ear, bringing his hand to rest against her cheek.

While he marvels at how smooth her skin feels against his, soft and cool, something unlocks deep within Clarke’s chest. 

When Russell had asked her if she’d ever known peace, this is the first thing she’d thought of: Bellamy’s touch. Bellamy’s arms around her. Just Bellamy.

Their eyes search each others’ for a long moment, until he runs a thumb along her cheekbone and hers flutter closed in response.

“Clarke…” Gravelly and urgent, his whisper tugs on her like a magnet. 

She leans toward the sound, toward him, needing to be closer and closer still...when a voice in the back of her mind breaks through. 

_ Stop_! Her eyes snap open. 

Pulling away, she instantly mourns the heat from his fingers, is pained to see Bellamy’s brow crease with confusion. 

The sound of tavern-goers pouring out into the night, saying their goodbyes for the evening, floats up the them. 

But understanding sparks in his eyes when Clarke, gaze shifting to the stairwell, asks, “Where’s Echo?”

He straightens, putting a little more space between them, and takes a breath. 

“I’m not sure, actually...Probably telling the others what I just told you.” 

He shrugs, that familiar self-loathing grimace twisting his expression. “But if she was off somewhere plotting my death instead I wouldn’t blame her.”

A questioning wrinkle appears between Clarke’s brows.

“I screwed up,” he says before she can ask. He slouches forward again, elbows on his knees. “I should have told her that I...how I felt about you. A long time ago.”

Clarke blinks, her lips parting in surprise. Focused on his own wringing hands, Bellamy goes on.

“After I—after we lost you…” He swallows. Hard.

“I missed you every day of those six years, Clarke. But I tried so hard not to think about you.”

She watches a muscle in his jaw feather. Remembers the omnipresent crackle of radio silence.

“I couldn’t face it. You know?”

When he looks over at her, she gives him the slightest of nods. The unshed tears swimming in her eyes cause his own to burn, but he forces himself to continue past the lump in his throat. 

“And then we came back to the ground and…so much has happened.” He lets out a sigh. “Is still happening...”

Bellamy trails off, looking to the stars again for a few heartbeats before meeting her gaze once more.

“I let it get in the way. Still didn’t tell her. Didn’t tell you. I put it off—like a coward—until she called me on it.”

Clarke is pale, still. Her voice barely a whisper as she asks, “When?”

His stomach knots and turns over. What if he just unloaded all this on her, his best friend, and she doesn’t feel remotely the same? Then what?

“About, uh, an hour ago?” He answers, nerves tightening. “On the way back from Gabriel’s camp.” 

She nods. “Bellamy. I’m so sorry—” 

The tilt of her head and the tone of her voice radiate a sympathy he can’t abide. He shakes his head. 

“No.” Pushing himself up off the low couch, he continues. “Please don't apologize. Not for this.”

Sucking in a steadying breath, he steels himself to meet her confused eyes. 

“You can’t be sorry, Clarke, because I’m not.” He shrugs. Now that he’s this far past the walls he’d built, the lines he’d drawn, he might as well put it all out there. “I’m not sorry I fell in love with you—that I’m _ in love _ with you. I’m only sorry it took me so long to say it.”

He expects her to argue. Push back on him, like always. Instead, she says nothing. Only a small sound escapes the back of her throat. A gasp, maybe? Or was it a laugh?

Clarke’s brain is exhausted from the past week’s battles. Still struggling to process an onslaught of grief and fear, it stalls out for a few moments. She can almost feel it strain, an engine pushed to the breaking point, to take on the absolute avalanche of joy that threatens to consume her where she sits.

_ Is this real? _ She wonders. _ Are you dreaming? _

While he watches her face for any sign of emotion, Bellamy distantly realizes the tavern must have closed for the night. The crowd below has dispersed, leaving only the sound of the wind to fill the silence. 

He’s about to start rambling, open his mouth in an attempt to reel the awkward truth back in, when she finally speaks.

“You...love me?” Her voice wavers, unsure. 

Under any other circumstances, the quizzical look twisting her features would make him laugh.

But Bellamy’s heart splinters. _ She doesn’t know_. How could she not know by now? Had everyone noticed but her?

Bending his uninjured leg to kneel in front of her, he takes her cheek in his hand once again. The knots in his stomach loosen when she leans into his touch.

In answer to her question, he nods. “So much.”’

Bellamy’s eyes, bottomless with devotion, shine. Clarke thinks she could drown in the those eyes and die happy.

“Honestly, it scares me sometimes.” A crooked smile twists his lips as he continues. “But I don’t want to be afraid of it anymore. And...and you don’t have to feel the same, Clarke. You don’t. I just needed you to know.”

At that, she shakes her head with such emphasis that a pair of fat, twin tears break loose from her lashes to slide down her cheeks. He brushes them away with his thumbs. 

As if to hold him in place, Clarke wraps her hands around his forearms. Her chin trembles even as she smiles. “Of course I love you, Bellamy.”

Echoing his words, her voice breaks. “So much.”

Together, they move. As he pulls her to him, she leans closer. And when their lips meet, their already swollen hearts—twin stars trapped behind separate rib cages—somehow expand. 

Unrelenting pain and unyielding joy war inside of them. But while they hold onto each other, give themselves to each other, in this moment, joy wins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue? Or let sleeping dogs lie?


	6. God Only Knows | An Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Clarke and Bellamy have realized their feelings for one another, what awaits for the group? And how will Madi react?

Bellamy wakes just after sunrise, when a ray of light slides over the roof of the tavern directly into his eyes. He squints against the bright gray of the early morning sky, disoriented by his surroundings. 

But then Clarke, warm and solid in his arms, sighs in her sleep and readjusts against his chest. And he remembers.

Everything is such a mess—between his missing sister and her lost mother, a dark commander uploaded to god knows where, not to mention the bizarre culture they’d wandered into currently teetering on a knife's edge and poised to take Jordan down with it. And yet…

Barely breathing, Bellamy watches as Clarke settles her head over his heart. When he feels her body relax fully against his, a sense of rightness, of wholeness, wraps around him, like the blanket he’d procured for them sometime in the night. 

When Josephine deemed his relationship with his best friend “exhausting,” he’d agreed. Denying their connection had been a constant strain, a futile struggle akin to prying apart a pair of super magnets using only your bare hands. 

But now, being with her like this, like they had been last night… Even if it they’re only in the eye of a storm, it’s still the most peaceful he’s ever felt.

Affection, fierce and sudden, stirs behind his sternum, and Bellamy fights the urge to press a kiss to her hair. He resists; not wanting to wake her. After all, they’d only fallen asleep an hour or so ago.

A smile breaks over his face at the thought. If Clarke wasn’t currently in his arms he could be convinced that last night was a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamt about her that way. 

This time, though, it was real. He’d actually done it—told her he loved her. And not only had the sky _ not _crashed down around them, she’d admitted the same. When he’d reached for her, she hadn’t run, but instead pulled him tighter. 

And when he’d kissed her...despite the crisp morning air on his face, heat rises in Bellamy’s cheeks. He reconsiders rousing her just so they can repeat the events playing in his mind.

But Clarke saves him from temptation, waking on her own. Moving a hand up to shield her eyes from the invading sunshine, she mumbles his name like question.

“What time is it?” Her voice is hoarse. She yawns as she sits up, pushing against his chest with one hand.

“Not sure. Can’t be much after dawn, though.” 

He rubs tight circles into the small of her back. She looks like an angel in the morning light—messy hair and all. 

Scrubbing at her eyes, Clarke stifles a second yawn. “I should check on Madi.”

As if summoned, the girl’s voice echoes up the stairs. “Clarke? You still up here?”

Bellamy lurches into a sitting position, feels Clarke stiffen beside him, as Madi’s unruly curls, free from their usual braids, clear the landing of the steps. 

He cringes inside. Finding them together in bed—or on a couch—is probably not how Clarke would have planned to broach the subject of their relationship to her daughter. 

At least they’re fully clothed, he thinks, bracing for whatever is about to unfold between the Griffins.

When Madi spots the pair, frozen in a tornado of blankets and cushions, her mouth drops open in surprise. The girl’s eyes widen. But to Bellamy’s deep relief, they gleam with excitement, rather than hurt or anger. 

He lets out a sigh. But when Madi claps her hands together, he sees Clarke wince, ever so slightly.

Before the younger Griffin can start crowing with triumph, Bellamy gives her the tiniest of head shakes, an attempt to telegraph a silent plea.

To her credit, Madi snaps her mouth shut. She presses her lips together for a second, before speaking.

“Um,” she starts. She looks to the ground and suppresses a grin before lifting her eyes to the adults once more. “I’m supposed to tell you that everyone is going to meet in the castle in an hour so that we can figure out what to do about...about Octavia.” A somber curtain closes over the glee in her eyes and Bellamy returns the small, sad smile she gives him. 

“And Jordan, too,” she adds, looking back to the floor. 

“What’s wrong with Jordan?” Clarke asks. Groping around where the couch meets the floor in search of her boots, she keeps her eyes on Madi—and the blanket pulled up over her nightgown.

Bellamy grimaces, recalling the conversation he’d had with Harper and Monty’s son yesterday. 

“The adjusters,” he explains, guilt shadowing his features. “They got to him when he was recovering—put ideas his head somehow. Yesterday, he told me that what happened to Delilah is _ our _ fault, for coming here in the first place.”

Clarke’s hands pause their search. Her body stills as her eyes meet Bellamy’s. She can tell they’re both thinking about the same thing: Harper’s last wish. _ Take care of our boy. _

“He wouldn’t talk to any of us last night,” Madi confirms with a whisper. 

“Last night?” Clarke’s eyes narrow as they turn back to the girl. “You need rest, Madi. How late were you up? Did you at least—” 

Bellamy realizes, with a touch of guilt, that he’d forgotten to share Madi’s note with Clarke. But the girl comes to her own defense before he can interject. 

“You worry too much.” Her hands land on her hips. 

The gesture so strongly reminds Bellamy of Octavia, insisting she could handle the unknown dangers beyond the dropship, that his eyes sting. He blinks to clear them. 

Meanwhile, beside him, Clarke’s brows arch nearly to her hairline. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. I‘m not a baby anymore.” Madi juts her chin out, and _ that _ mannerism is so utterly Clarke that Bellamy can’t help the smile that cracks his face. “I just got up to get a snack, and everyone was already downstairs talking.” 

“Jordan came in with a man I’ve never seen before,” she continues, looking to Bellamy. “He had on the adjuster robes. But they left as soon as they saw us.” 

She folds her arms across her chest then, and turns back to Clarke. “And before you ask, Jackson made me eat some gross vegetable stew and not just cookies.” 

Bellamy stifles a chuckle, and is pleased to notice Madi’s improved coloring. Her cheeks, so sallow only yesterday, already had some pink to them. 

Clarke, for her part, sighs and nods, appeased with her daughter’s defense. Then, with a look of triumph, she pulls one boot out from beneath the blanket.

“Besides, I got plenty of sleep,” Madi presses, a smirk forming. “Probably more than you two.”

“Madi!” Clarke drops the laces she’d been working. 

Seeing her cheeks redden, Bellamy can’t keep it in—a deep rumble of laughter shakes through him.

Madi laughs too. And while Clarke glares at both of them, there’s no real anger in the look.

“Well,” she says, shaking her head slightly, tamping down a smile of her own. “Why don’t you get in the bath first. I’ll be right down. Okay?” 

Madi nods and moves to leave. But with one foot into the stairwell, she turns back and gives them both a rebellious, toothy grin. “For the record, I like you guys together.”

Before either Clarke or Bellamy can respond, the girl thunders down the steps. 

After a beat, Clarke turns to him. One boot untied, her hair a haystack from sleep, she looks mortified. But she also seems...lighter? Her countenance softer somehow. Something about her face reminds him of that one, ill-fated Unity Day more than a century ago. Before everything fell apart.

“Well, that was...something,” she says, starting on the laces of her other shoe.

He nods, laughs again. “The good news is, despite everything, I think she’s gonna be okay, Clarke.” 

She shakes her head at that. “God I hope so.” 

Working on his own boots, he watches out of the corner of his eye as she struggles to finish her knot. The long sleeves of his cardigan keep slipping past her fingers.

After a few failed attempts to keep them pushed up past her elbows, she divests the mass of wool he’d wrapped around her last night. Goosebumps rise on her pale skin. He swallows.

“Kids are resilient.” 

Bumping her shoulder with his own, he adds, “I mean, look at us.”

She shrugs at that, a small smile playing on her mouth. “Yeah. Look at us.”

A glimmer in her eyes makes Bellamy’s heart beat faster. He’s about to lean in, when she stands up. 

“Well, if we’ve got less than an hour to get over there,” she says, pointing a finger at herself. “I need to hurry and wash up before I change.” 

A wicked grin spreads across Bellamy’s features as he rakes his gaze up and down her body.

“I don’t know, princess. I think you you look fine just like that.” 

He’s pleased to see a flush creep up past the neckline of her nightgown. 

“Shut up,” she retorts.

But a grin, bright as the sunshine gathering strength at her back, lights up Clarke’s face. She shrugs his sweater back on, wrapping it around herself to conceal most of her deepening blush. 

***

Looking out over the small pond across from the tavern, Bellamy is surprised to realize that he knows the sound of Clarke’s footsteps. He’s trying to work out what could be so different about the crunch of her feet on the gravel, compared to everyone else, when she speaks. 

“Madi’ll be right out.” 

He stands then, turning to face her. He misses the nightgown. But Clarke, he thinks, has a beauty that shines out of her, defiant of her condition or surroundings. She’s as beautiful in black studded leather as she is in a party gown—gorgeous always, even when screaming at him, or caked in dirt and blood. 

The last thought has him biting his lip. “You know, you don’t have to do this right now, Clarke. If you and Madi want to take another day or—”

She takes a purposeful step closer. “No.” 

Her tone is firm, but her eyes are soft. And as she laces her fingers with his, squeezing, she adds, “I want to.”

Clarke’s eyes burn when she looks up at him. “We’re going to figure this out, Bellamy. All of us. You and me. Together.”

Silent, he nods, raising their joined hands to his lips. 

“I love you,” he whispers. He presses another kiss to her forehead, before resting his head against hers. “So much.”

Of course they’d do this side by side, and everything after, too. 

“So much.” She breathes in deep, tightens her arms around him. 

Whatever adventures or disasters awaited, they could face it—would face it—together. Never alone. Never again.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that, as they say. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed this little story: in particular, those who left kudos or comments. It not only made my day, it sincerely helped keep me inspired to finish. Bless you. 
> 
> And, finally, major gratitude to prolific fan vidders Team Hodgins and Hell is Empty... I don’t know you at all, but your art quite literally got me here. #OTH. (If you, dear reader, haven’t checked out these videos yet...ooh, boy. Open a new tab right this instant and YOU ARE WELCOME).

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in 20 years. Yeah, you heard me. Cut my teeth on MSR when I was but a wee child of 15 and no pairing has ever sucked me back in—until now. Behold, the power of Bellarke.
> 
> Be kind.


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